Warden's Oath
by Inkletter
Summary: After the fall of Ostagar, only three Grey Wardens stand; an ex-templar, an elf, and the daughter of a teyrn. Together, they must work to put aside their differences and build an army against the Blight. They are Ferelden's only hope; charged with everything, and equipped to do nothing.
1. Under Siege

When Vera woke, she knew something was terribly wrong.

It was well past midnight. The acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils, burning her throat and wrenching violent coughs from her chest. From behind her bedroom door, she could hear muffled shouting. Alarmed, she shot out of bed and began to dress. Her hands trembled as she laced up her leather greaves.

Just as she was yanking on her boots, the door flew open and slammed against the stone wall. Smoke poured into the bedroom, and the sound of fearful screaming intensified. Through the haze, she could barely make out the two figures advancing on her.

"That's her_—_that's the teyrn's daughter!" One of the men cried. "Get her!"

Vera lunged for the weapon rack and filled her hands with two hatchets. The men were approaching, blades glimmering in the lamplight. Her heart pounded as she poised her arms, ready to engage in a bloody dance. She had spent years of her life preparing for encounters such as this.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, grinning wickedly. "He did say you were a little spitfire. Pity we have to kill you."

The corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly. "Oh, are those your orders? Such a shame you won't be able to report your failure."

"Shut up, bitch," the man spat, striking her across the face. Vera recoiled, tasting coppery blood. The man lifted his sword, but before he could land a blow, his grip loosened and the blade clattered to the ground. He clutched at his neck and began to gag. An arrow protruded from between his fingers, rivers of red interlacing down the skin of his throat. His companion could only stare in surprise as he fell, revealing a woman standing in the doorway. Her bow was drawn and trained on the second soldier, lips pulled back in a feral snarl.

Eleanor Cousland nodded. "Hello, dear." She loosed the arrow, striking the second man square between the eyes. He crumpled to the ground, dark blood pooling around his head.

Vera exhaled, her body quivering with shock. "Mother, what's...what's happening?"

Eleanor coaxed her arrow from the first man's throat and wiped it on his tunic_—_a tunic bearing the crest of Amaranthine. "We've been lied to, darling."

"You mean_—ouch, _damn it." She touched her lip and found it split open.

"They _did _hurt you," Eleanor murmured, reaching out to cup her daughter's cheek.

"It's nothing," Vera insisted, swatting her mother's hand away. "Really. Please, just tell me what's going on. Aside from your impeccable timing, of course."

Eleanor gestured to the dead soldiers. "Howe's men have seized the castle."

_"What?" _Vera's cheeks reddened with anger. "But—how—father said—" The words died in her mouth. She had known Howe her entire life, she had thought him a respectable man—never had she been given any reason not to trust the Arl of Amaranthine. And now, out of nowhere, he sought to end the Cousland line and take Highever for himself?

"Why would he do this to us?" she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I don't know, darling." Eleanor frowned, worry coloring her features. "But we can't stand around trying to figure it out. We have to get out of here."

"I...but..." Vera took a deep breath, trying to calm the slew of questions forming in her mind. "...Yes. You're right."

"First things first," her mother said, "I can't find your father anywhere. He was up late talking to the Grey Warden, and I fear the worst. We have to find him. Before Howe does."

Vera hefted her blades. "He can burn this castle to the ground if he wants, but he _won't_ kill us. I'll find him, mother."

Eleanor looked affronted. "I'm not waiting around while you play the hero."

Vera smiled. "You never could stay out of a fight.

"I'm no Orlesian wallflower," her mother mused, drawing an arrow. "Are you ready?"

Vera nodded. "Let's give these bastards a taste of what it means to be a Cousland."

"That's my girl."

* * *

Vera gasped and stumbled into the main hall. Blood splattered her leathers, and she shuddered wondering how much of it was hers. Her eyes burned; smoke filled the air, and every breath she took was like swallowing fire. None of this felt real. Howe's betrayal, her home under siege_—_hadn't she just been peacefully sleeping hours before? And now she had killed dozens of men, leaving a river of blood running through the castle. She'd witnessed the deaths of her servants, many of whom were her friends. She'd seen the lifeless bodies of her sister-in-law, of her nephew...tears welled in her eyes as she thought of Oren's pale face, so innocent, so pure. How could anyone commit such an act?

How grateful she was to have her mother at her side. Eleanor fought with a stoic ferocity, one that was sorely needed now. They still hadn't found her father, and Vera began to wonder if she would ever see him again.

A shout sounded from the corridor. "My lady!"

It was a voice Vera knew all too well. A smile lit up her face as Ser Gilmore rounded the corner, naked sword in hand. His flaming red hair was matted with ash. The look on his face was one of pure relief, and Vera knew her expression couldn't have been much different.

"Thank the Maker," he breathed, gathering her into a bone-crushing hug. "I thought they had taken you. I thought_..._I didn't dare hope_—_"

Vera's mouth burned with everything she wanted to say, and everything she knew she couldn't. "Gilmore," she begged. "You have to come with us."

"I can't. You know I can't."

"Please." Even as the word left her mouth, she knew it was a lost cause.

"Vera...don't do this to me." He let her go. "You need to get to the larder. The Grey Warden is escorting your father there now. He's hurt—badly. I have to stay here and try to hold these men back. It's the only way you'll have a chance to escape."

Tears blurred her vision. "Gilmore, I_—_"

"I know." He kissed her forehead and bowed to Eleanor. "Go, both of you, and quickly."

"Thank you, Ser." Eleanor tugged at her daughter's arm. "Come on, dear."

The teyrna started for the door, and Vera shot once last pleading glance at her longtime companion.

"Promise me you'll live," Gilmore implored. It wasn't a question; his voice verged on desperation.

"Only if you do the same."

A watery smile crossed his face. He touched her cheek, gauntleted fingers lingering on the soot-streaked skin. "I promise."

The words crumbled on his lips, a promise broken before it could be fulfilled. Gilmore always stayed true to his word, but both of them knew that this was a vow he wouldn't be able to keep. But she would forgive him. She always forgave him. And as he ran back the way he came, she filled her eyes with the sight of him, taking his image into her mind and burying it deep in her heart. Once he rounded the corner, she knew she would never look upon him again.

The sadness would come now. The anger would come later. Howe would pay, and pay dearly, for what he had done.

* * *

Vera burst into the kitchen larder. Her whole body sung with the urge to scream, to cry, to pray that this was all a nightmare. She fell, her quivering legs useless beneath her. Eleanor helped her up, grimacing at her daughter's appearance. A Howe soldier had slashed Vera's forehead, sending hot trails of blood dripping down her nose, under her jaw, and beneath the neck of her cuirass. In addition to the wound, her face was filthy with sweat, tears, and ash—altogether, indiscernible.

Eleanor quickly closed the door and barred it. "Howe will know of this escape route. We don't have much time."

A weary voice sounded from the corner of the cellar. "El—Eleanor? Pup?"

Vera whipped her head around to find her father crouched on the floor. His hand clenched a wound in his side, and his tunic was soaked red. Above him stood the Grey Warden Vera had met earlier that day, armed, poised, and ready to defend.

"Bryce!" Eleanor exclaimed, rushing to her husband's side. "Thank the Maker we found you."

"Eleanor—Vera," Bryce grunted. "I was wondering...when you would...get here."

"Father," Vera breathed. His skin was a ghostly pallor, and blood gathered at the corners of his mouth. "We have to get out of here."

"I can't...go with you. Not...like this." He hissed as more blood gushed from the wound.

"Nonsense," Eleanor snapped. "I won't leave you here. We'll go together. We'll find a healer—"

Bryce sighed. "Eleanor, dear...I can't even stand." He touched his wife's cheek with a shaking hand. "Go with Duncan. He will make sure you both get to safety."

Vera glanced at the Grey Warden, who nodded.

"I won't leave you," Eleanor contended. Her eyes met Vera's with sorrow and remorse. "Darling, you must go with Duncan. I will stay here with your father."

"But you'll die!" Vera argued, shaking her head stubbornly. She knelt beside her parents, refusing to believe that any of this was happening.

"Everyone dies, pup," Bryce remarked. "But you don't have to, not today."

"Your father and I have lived full lives," Eleanor added. "You haven't. Go with Duncan."

"And...become a Grey Warden?" Vera glanced up at the Warden-Commander. "But you said—"

"My lady," Duncan interrupted. "The darkspawn horde looms in the south. I came to your castle seeking a recruit. The threat demands that I leave with one."

Tears burned in Vera's eyes as she glanced from her parents to Duncan and back again. Two different paths. One lead to adventure and life; the other, certain death. She knew what choice she had to make, and her parents would want nothing less.

Vera looked at her father. "Are you sure?"

"Better there...than here."

"But what of Howe?" Vera wanted to know. "I won't see him live, not with Cousland blood on his hands."

Duncan touched her shoulder. "We will inform the king, and Howe will face justice. But for now, we must go, and quickly."

Vera nodded, satisfied with his answer. She knelt and embraced her family one last time. "I love both of you."

"And we love you, pup," her father replied, smiling weakly. "Go now, for your sake and for Ferelden's."

A crash sounded at the door; Howe's men had found their location. It would be moments before they broke through and overwhelmed them.

"Go!" Eleanor shouted, readying an arrow. "The servant's passage! Now!"

The look on her face left no room for argument. A cry broke from Vera's lips as Duncan urged her into the underground tunnel, desperate to get out before Howe's men could see where they were going. The last thing Vera saw before descending into darkness was her mother's face, fierce and determined, the face of a woman who would never give up, not until her dying breath.

_And neither will I_, Vera decided, and set after Duncan.

* * *

Vera had never run so much in all her life. Her legs were fatigued and threatened to fail, but Duncan helped her along. They had barely escaped the castle grounds, but Vera was certain that Howe's men were still in pursuit. There would be no stopping tonight. Not for food, not for sleep, not for the Maker himself. They would collapse before they stopped running.

Duncan was shouting, but Vera was too incoherent to understand him. Suddenly, her foot struck something hard, and she fell to the ground in a heap. Duncan skidded to a halt, bending over to help her up, but Vera's body had begun to convulse.

She heaved. A black tar-like substance spewed from her mouth, tasting of ash and burning her throat. She was barely aware of the hand on her back, pulling her filthy hair away from her face. All she knew was pain. Her stomach heaved again, the foul matter dribbling down her chin. She wiped at it with the back of her hand. Duncan helped her stand, slowly, his large hands holding her steady.

"We've covered a lot of ground," the Warden-Commander observed, gesturing behind them. "We can take it easy for now."

Vera looked back, and immediately wished she hadn't. Castle Cousland was a smoking wreck in the distance. Orange flames licked at the exterior, blackening the once-white stone. Her parents were there, Oren was there, Gilmore was there, lying dead in the midst of the chaos, Howe's men trampling their lifeless bodies—

The sight was too much. Vera's head fell against Duncan's chest, and she slipped out of consciousness.


	2. Acquaintances

The new recruit was...quiet.

When Duncan left to scout Highever, Alistair had not expected him to enlist the teyrn's daughter. Not that he minded the idea of a female Grey Warden—in fact, it was a welcome change—but why her, and why now? The other Grey Wardens were men, and none of them had come from noble families, save for himself...sort of.

Duncan had returned to Ostagar just days ago, the woman his small and silent shadow. She and the Warden-Commander were in a venerable state; armor blackened and stained with blood, worn expressions, and fatigued bodies. Neither of them looked as if they'd had a real bath in weeks. Which, Alistair thought, they probably hadn't.

Their introduction had been brief. Duncan addressed her as Vera Cousland, a name unadorned with fancy honorifics. It was appropriate for a would-be Grey Warden—those who joined their ranks were forced to leave their former lives behind, titles and all. Still, the Cousland name was just as well known in Ferelden as the king's. Alistair hoped she wasn't expecting to live in the lap of luxury. Noble or not, all Grey Wardens were equal, and their lives were anything but extravagant.

Vera herself was short in stature, with dark brown hair that fell past her shoulders in soft curls. Her blue-grey eyes were bright, deep-set, and ripe with exhaustion. It was remarkable how much she resembled her brother, Fergus—the elder Cousland, a soldier whom Alistair had met just days before.

"It's good to meet you. I'm Alistair, the junior Warden." He reached out to shake her hand.

She accepted his gesture, her small hand completely enveloped in his. She had no words to offer, but her mouth curved into the tiniest of smiles.

Duncan put a hand on her shoulder. "I expect you and Vera will have plenty of time to get acquainted. For now, I need to see that she gets a hot meal, and a tent."

As they walked away, Alistair noticed twin hatchets crossed at the woman's back and wondered how someone so little could even lift an axe, let alone use one in combat.

Later that night, Alistair voiced his concerns to Duncan.

"Oh, she knows what she's doing," Duncan reassured him.

"How do you know?"

A grim expression settled over Duncan's face. "I witnessed her in action. We had to fight our way out of the castle."

Alistair was puzzled. "What—why?"

"Her family was betrayed by Arl Howe," Duncan explained, lips drawn in a tight line. "His men attacked in the dead of night. They killed her parents, her servants, her brother's wife and son...and they would've killed her, too, if I hadn't dragged her out."

Alistair shook his head in astonishment. "Duncan, the king _needs_ to hear of this."

"I know. But now is not the time."

Alistair rubbed the bridge of his nose, still not quite believing his ears. "Arl Howe..." he murmured thoughtfully. "Who would've expected him to do something so...vile?"

"No one saw it coming, even I." Duncan smiled sadly. "But Vera will make a fine Warden. She even expressed interest in joining when I first arrived, but her father wouldn't hear it."

"I can imagine."

Their conversation fed Alistair's growing interest in the new recruit. He soon found himself wanting to see the younger Cousland in battle, wondering if she was indeed the seasoned warrior Duncan claimed her to be.

Unfortunately, his curiosity remained unsated, for Vera rarely left her tent. She would emerge in the morning, fulfill her meager duties, and retire to her dwelling once more. She never dined with the other soldiers, and Alistair was convinced that if he hadn't prompted the elven servants to bring her food, she would not have eaten at all.

After several days of this, Alistair approached Duncan once more.

"It's a rather strange way to grieve, don't you think?"

Duncan sighed. "Alistair, have you ever lost someone important to you?"

The junior Warden thought for a moment. He had never known his mother or father, but that wasn't the same as death. And though his friends were few, he had yet to endure the loss of a brother-in-arms. "No, I suppose not."

"Vera has lost both of her parents, and must now face telling her brother that his wife and son are dead," said Duncan. "So, as one who never grieved, why do you find her sadness so strange?"

"I...don't know," Alistair admitted.

"You should try talking to her," Duncan suggested. "It would be nice for her to have a friend. She's probably mourning the loss of many."

_Great_. If there was one thing Alistair was renowned for, it was his ability to unwittingly offend nearly everyone he spoke to. The words would trip and fall off his tongue, landing in a catastrophic heap. No, he would keep his distance—at least for now.

"It wasn't a request," said Duncan, eying Alistair's reproachful expression. "After all, you'll be shedding blood together."

"...Fine."

Though he was wary of her (and still avoided speaking with her, despite Duncan's constant probing), Alistair felt badly for the new recruit. Often he would pass by her tent during one of his nightly patrols, and from within he swore he could hear the sound of muffled crying. Part of him wanted to try and talk to her, but he knew that if he did, she would offer him the same stoic silence that she offered every other person in this camp. Duncan excluded, of course, but even he only received the occasional "hello" in passing.

So, Alistair decided to leave her alone and focus his attention on the other two recruits. Both were young men: Jory, a knight from Redcliffe, and Daveth, a rogue from Denerim. They were capable soldiers, but Alistair saw much room for improvement. Daveth was lazy with his movements, and Jory was hesitant. For days Alistair worked with them in the training yard, trying to emulate what the other Wardens had once taught him.

It was after one of these sessions that Alistair felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he was startled to see Vera standing behind him.

"Er—yes?" he asked, trying not to look too surprised.

She shifted uncomfortably. "Have you heard anything of my brother?"

Of course she would be wanting to see her brother; her parents were dead, and she was still hanging onto the hope that her only sibling was still alive. Unfortunately for her (and, consequently, himself), Fergus had left to scout the Korcari Wilds before Vera had arrived. His patrol group had not yet returned, and most assumed them to be dead. The Wilds were teeming with darkspawn, after all. And Alistair, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news, had to think of a mindful response.

He met her eyes guardedly. "His scouting party is due to return soon." The claim wasn't entirely a lie, but he couldn't help feeling guilty once the words left his lips. She'd probably been hearing the same thing from Duncan daily.

"Oh. Okay." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, revealing a thin scar that stretched from temple to jaw. Briefly Alistair wondered where it came from. Then, without breathing a word of goodbye, she turned and vanished into the crowd.

"Is that the other recruit?" Daveth inquired, his eyes resting on Vera's retreating hindquarters.

Alistair glared at the rogue. "Yes, and from what I'm told, she single-handedly took out an entire host of Arl Howe's men."

It was a slight exaggeration, but at least Daveth was looking at him again. Alistair was afraid that this would happen. The army was full of men like this; vulgar, catcalling men that would not see Vera as a warrior to respect, but as a woman to ridicule. If Daveth was to become Grey Warden, Alistair would have to set him straight. As for the other soldiers—well, Vera sounded like a woman that could take care of herself.

And while that may have been true, Alistair still made a point of checking up on her more often. He said hello every morning and asked if she would like to join him and the others in the training yard. She declined each time, somewhat to his relief, but always offered a smile. Alistair doubted that even Duncan could have done much better, and progress was progress, however slight.

He thought that he was doing rather well, considering his history with communication, but that notion was quickly shattered when Duncan pointed out that he hadn't _actually_ tried having a conversation with her.

"Even if I do, she'll just brush me off," Alistair argued.

"Give it a chance. She's getting better. Or have you not been paying attention, as you should be?"

Alistair huffed and left the Warden-Commander alone at his post. The camp was silent, other than the crackling of campfires and random bouts of laughter coming from the mess tent. As he walked, he pondered Duncan's words. The man was right, and Alistair knew it. Duncan wasn't pushing him to chat with her simply for the sake of it. He wanted them to start building a friendship, something all Wardens had to share if they hoped to work together in camaraderie.

Alistair paused outside Daveth and Jory's shared tent and poked his head inside. "Everything alright in here?"

Jory was fast asleep, snoring loudly on his cot. Daveth looked up from the blade he was whetting and nodded.

"Good," said Alistair. "When Jory wakes, tell him he's on latrine duty tomorrow, Duncan's orders."

Daveth grinned. "Oh, sure. He'll be _thrilled_."

Suppressing a laugh, Alistair took his leave and continued his rounds, checking up on the other Wardens and stopping to chat with several. With the darkspawn horde suppressed for now, everyone was in higher spirits than usual. With any luck, their army could stop the Blight before it even began.

Alistair soon found himself outside of Vera's tent. He sighed heavily and almost entered without warning, but stopped short.

_You idiot,_ he mentally corrected himself. _She's a lady._

He rapped sharply on one of the metal poles holding her tent up. At first, he heard nothing, but then a soft voice sounded from the thin opening.

"Come in."

Alistair pushed the tent flap aside. Vera sat sideways on her cot. She wore an overlarge tunic that fell to her knees, doubtlessly meant for a man. She didn't look at him, but invited him inside with a wave of her hand.

"I just wanted to check in," Alistair began awkwardly, still standing in the doorway. Sitting beside her would make him feel invasive, and he fancied himself a gentleman. "Er—how are you?"

She stared at her feet. "Are you here on Duncan's bidding?"

"No," said Alistair, too quickly. "I—uh—"

"It's alright," she said, her cheeks lifting in a smile. "I know I haven't been the...friendliest, of people, lately."

Alistair watched her carefully. A tallow candle burned on the small wooden crate that served as a bedside table, washing her skin with yellow light. Shadows dripped down her cheekbones, accentuating the dusting of freckles across her nose.

"It's not without reason," he said lamely.

"I suppose." She shifted her position, looking up at him for the first time. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.

"Look..." Alistair ran a hand through his hair. He was unsure of what to say, so he decided to leave her with the same words Duncan had once spoken to him. "I'm not going to ask you to stop grieving; I can't even pretend to understand what you're feeling. But...if you're to be a Grey Warden, Vera, you have to be all here," he tapped his temple, "And all here." He placed a fist over his heart. Somehow the words sounded less eloquent coming from his mouth. "Just think on it."

She pressed her lips together, allowing the words to sink in. Her eyes were focused on something in her hands. She turned over the object in her fingers, and Alistair observed it to be an engraved silver necklace.

He decided that it was time to take his leave. "Well...good night," he fumbled. "You're welcome to join us in the training yard tomorrow, if you see fit."

Just as he lifted the flap of her tent, Vera stopped him. "Wait." He turned to look at her. "What you said about my brother—was that the truth?"

Alistair hesitated, not wanting to upset her further. "That's what I was told. I don't know anything beyond that."

She seemed satisfied with his answer. "Alright. Thank you, Alistair. It _was_ Alistair, right?"

"That's me," he replied, smiling. "Try and get some sleep."

"I know you're the one who told the servants to bring me food," she continued, though his foot was already out the door.

"What—how?" He thought he told the elves to keep quiet.

She smiled and snuffed the candle. "Oh, It was just a guess."


	3. First Test

The next morning, Alistair performed his morning exercises with renewed vigor, even after listening to Jory's whining about latrine duty.

"Just do what you're told," Alistair snapped. "I don't make the orders."

Jory grumbled many colorful words as Alistair passed by. He couldn't help but feel a sting of irritation, even though latrine duty was nobody's favorite job. Soldiers were supposed to follow orders, regardless of how unappealing they were. It was a lesson Alistair learned long ago, and one that he would be happy to teach Jory if his foul attitude persisted. He expected this kind of behavior from someone like Daveth, not a trained knight who knew better.

After completing his exercises, the sun had barely crested the horizon. Yawning, Alistair made his way to the mess tent, hoping to eat a spot of breakfast before the other Wardens devoured everything in sight. If there was one advantage to waking up early, Alistair thought, it was that he got the best pick of food.

Entering the mess tent, he piled his plate high with eggs and fruit and took a seat next to a very drowsy Daveth. "Morning," he grunted, and proceeded to stuff his face.

Not five minutes passed when the tent flap opened once more. Alistair looked up, his mouth full of sweet apples, and nearly choked when Vera entered. She was garbed in light leather armor, both hatchets at her back. Daveth seemed just as surprised as he was to see the younger Cousland; it was the first time she had seen fit to join the soldiers for a meal.

"You're up early," Alistair commented as she took the seat across from him. For such a small person, Vera had quite the feast in front of her; breakfast ham, fried eggs, sliced peaches, and a hot cup of tea.

She stabbed one of her peaches and eyed it carefully. "I'm training with you, aren't I? Or has your offer expired?"

"Er—yes. I mean, of course you can join us," Alistair stuttered. He certainly hadn't planned on her to actually train with them, and did his best to hide it.

"Good. I'm out of practice."

They ate their meal in silence. Alistair snuck glances at Daveth every now and then, waiting for him to make an inappropriate comment, and was relieved when he did not. He watched Vera, too. She ate her meal with gusto, shoveling meat and eggs into her mouth and forgoing the manners normally exhibited by female nobility. He couldn't help but smile. If she ate like this now, he couldn't wait to see the size of her appetite after her Joining—that is, if she survived.

Once the servants cleared their plates, Alistair led his charges into the training yard. Jory caught up with them on the way, his mouth set in a frown. If the knight so much as breathed a word of complaint during their session, Duncan would hear about it; Alistair would make sure of that.

The three recruits began their warm-up exercises, each one of them stretching in their own unique way. Daveth, fancying himself quick and cunning, stretched his legs moreso than Jory, who preferred his greatsword and focused on his upper body.

Vera, however, was different. She sat down, both legs outstretched, and pressed her nose to the ground. She was flexible, Alistair noted. She would use speed and dexterity to best an opponent over the strength she clearly lacked.

"So how are you wanting to do this?" Vera asked, rolling her neck.

"Well," Alistair began, "Normally I pit Daveth and Jory against each other, and stand here laughing while they cut each other to ribbons."

"That so?"

"Actually, he's not far off from the truth," Jory muttered. "Except instead of laughing, he points out everything we do wrong."

"And how else are you supposed to get better?" Alistair asked brusquely. Any patience he had left for the knight was gone. "Shall I hold your hand instead? Stand idly by, waiting for you to strike? No one has time for that."

Jory stared at him open-mouthed, face flushed with embarrassment. Good. It would do for the knight to learn some humility. Not that Duncan would have approved of his methods, but as it was...

"Blight take you," Jory growled.

Alistair snorted. "If I have to rely on _you_ to watch my back, it most certainly will."

They were interrupted by Vera's laughter. "You two are _adorable_," she quipped. "Daveth, perhaps we should leave them alone?"

Jory grew even redder. "Th-that's not what—are you implying—"

"Oh, anger. Good. Maybe we won't have to wait until the archdemon appears for you to start whacking." Alistair drew his sword. "Right, enough. Daveth, take Ser Knight and run through the drills I taught you yesterday. I'll be here."

A smirking Daveth nodded and walked off, half-dragging Jory, who was still muttering obscenities under his breath.

Alistair sighed and turned to Vera. "I'm sorry. That doesn't usually happen."

She glanced at Jory, who was now swinging at Daveth with a rather dangerous ferocity. "You did that on purpose."

"Did what?"

"Provoked him. Look, he's already got Daveth on the defensive."

Alistair watched the two men thoughtfully. "Huh. So he does."

Daveth looked panicked as the knight advanced on him. From the look on Jory's face, any passerby would have thought that Daveth had caused him some unforgivable offense. The knight raised his sword and, with a feral yell, disarmed one of Daveth's daggers. It flew across the training yard and skittered to a halt at Vera's feet.

She stopped the blade with the toe of her boot and picked it up. "Well, that hasn't happened before."

Alistair's brow crinkled in surprise. "Have you been watching us?"

"On the standby," she remarked, tossing the dagger aside. "My brother once told me that a wise warrior observes his opponents before engaging them in battle."

"He's right, though you will find one rarely has the opportunity."

"True." She reached back and drew her hatchets. "But I have one now."

"Do you?" He asked, a smile tugging at his mouth. "And what have you observed of me?"

She started to circle him. "You're strong," she said bluntly, arms poised. "You easily batter down weaker opponents. Your shield protects you well, and you're good with a sword. Altogether, a real threat to someone like me." She smiled slightly. "But there's something I have that you don't."

"And what's that?" He asked, feet moving in time with hers. Something about how she watched him made his heart patter nervously, as if at any moment he would feel the brush of cold steel against his neck.

Suddenly, she stopped moving. Her stormy eyes flashed with what Alistair could only identify as laughter.

"Dashing good looks," she whispered.

Alistair paused, brows pushed together in confusion. "Er—"

With a wild cry, Vera leapt forward, her boot connecting solidly with Alistair's chest. The wind broke from his lungs in one fell swoop. He gasped for air, trailing his fingers over his cuirass. A small dent now marred the once-smooth splintmail.

Vera bounced back, lithe as a court dancer. She landed with one leg outstretched and hatchets at both sides, perfectly balanced.

Alistair shot her a poisonous glare. "You—" He coughed. "You cheated."

"Cheated?" Vera shook her head, her tone teasing. "Are you challenging my honor?"

"Maybe," he grumbled. If there was one thing Alistair prided himself on, it was his skills in combat. He was used to being outwitted, but he was _not _used to being caught off-guard, and he considered Vera's "surprise" an enormous blow to his pride. He could feel the need to prove himself rising in his gut, which confused him even more, given that it was supposed to be the other way around.

He resumed circling Vera, watching his opponent with narrowed eyes. She was short, skinny, lightly armored—a combination that told Alistair she could be easily overpowered. In spite of this, she didn't appear to be nervous at all. Beads of sweat began rolling down the back of his neck. The way she stared at him, so _calm_, so _collected_; it was enough to make any foe tremble with anxiety.

That was her advantage, Alistair realized, and it was effective. Well, he wasn't going to stand around waiting for her to make the first move...again.

He lunged. She met his downward sweep with both hatchets, resulting in a metallic clang that echoed across the training field. Alistair pressed down with all his might, trying to force Vera to her knees. It was a trick he had learned during his years at the abbey, designed to put weaker opponents at a disadvantage until they were forced to yield. The tactic rarely failed him, and he wanted to see if Vera was clever enough to get away.

Her face was pinched with tension, but Alistair could tell she was prepared for something like this. The veins in her arms stood out, blue branches against her pale skin, betraying how difficult it was for her to keep him at bay on strength alone. She peered up at him with disdain as her knees began to tremble, giving out under the force of his blade.

Then, with almost inhuman speed, she disengaged and rolled out of the way, causing him to stumble forward. She didn't waste a moment. While Alistair regained his footing, Vera feigned a hit that could have cleaved open his side had he been unarmored and she hadn't been holding back. Her goal was not to hurt him, he noticed, simply to show what she _could_ do if this were a real battle and not a spar. He nodded his approval, but her face revealed no change in emotion. She appeared angry with herself. Someone with Vera's stature and shape could not afford to be overpowered, and she knew that. It must have taken years of training for her to learn how to get away from a stronger opponent. To get away from someone like _him_.

Vera was breathing heavily now, and from the haphazard way she gripped her axes, he could tell that her arms were trembling. She had been able to evade his maneuver, but at a cost.

It was a test of Alistair's patience as Vera began circling him once more. The anger faded from her face as she watched him, glancing upward every so often. Alistair moved opposite her and began to wonder what she was playing at when suddenly his gaze met the blinding light of the Ferelden sunrise. He squinted as spots danced in his vision and water leaked from the corners of his eyes.

Vera sprung, easily slipping past Alistair's defenses to feign a blow to his exposed chest. She stopped short, the blade of her axe barely kissing the metal underneath. Had she wanted, she could have crushed his chest plate and broken two or three ribs.

Angry at being outwitted by her a second time, Alistair shoved her axe aside with his shield and swiped at her blindly. She leapt backward a moment too late, and his sword left a long scratch that stretched across her leather cuirass. Forget testing, Alistair thought, Duncan was right. This woman clearly knew how to outmaneuver opponents regardless of strength.

He began delivering a series of downward chops, forcing her to remain on the defensive for quite some time. Vera used the spacious ring to her advantage, pulling away from his blows by ducking, dodging, and even rolling out of the way. He managed to deal a bit of damage, even inflicting a small cut on her arm, but he was wearing out quickly. His chest rose and fell at an increasingly rapid rate.

Vera noticed this, too. The corners of her mouth twitched upward as she sidestepped Alistair's thrust, barely avoiding the caress of his blade. She began backpedaling, stopping suddenly when her back hit the fence. A grin crossed his face; he had her now.

Just as he swiped his blade upward to stroke the skin of her throat, she dropped to the ground and slid between the wide gap of his legs. Before he could even register what happened, Vera was at his back, one arm snaked around his neck, the other holding an axe to his jugular. Her knees gripped his torso on either side; her height disadvantage had led her to _jump_ on him.

"Am I cheating now, steelshanks?" Vera whispered, her breath hot in his ear.

Alistair gulped, feeling a blush creep over his face. "I...yield," he groused.

Vera dropped to the ground, sheathing her axes. At this point, she was breathing just as hard as he was. A wide-eyed elven servant rushed over and handed each of them a waterskin, of which Alistair was immensely grateful. He downed the liquid in one draught, sighing at the cool relief pooling in his belly.

"Impressive, both of you," said a voice from beyond the fence.

Alistair turned to see Duncan positioned just outside the training yard, face alight with a large, wolfish grin. He stood at the head of a small crowd of soldiers, some Wardens, some not. How long had they been watching? They must have been there a while, because all of them wore expressions of awe and some were even cheering. For himself or for Vera, he was unsure, but he assumed it was the latter. She had bested him with swiftness and guile. No one would question that.

In a way, he was glad he had lost. Word would get around, and the men would be more likely to show Vera the respect she deserved, both as a Warden and as a lady. Alistair met Duncan's stare, and he winked as if to say _I told you so_.

The Warden-Commander entered the ring to join Alistair and Vera, whose lacerated arm was being tended to by the same servant who had brought the water. Alistair hadn't realized how deeply his blade had pierced her. Shame settled over his face; she had made a special effort not to hurt him at all, and he had allowed his pride to guide his actions. He tried to convey an apology with his eyes, and Vera nodded, a smile still fresh on her mouth.

Duncan lifted his hand and motioned for Daveth and Jory to join them. The men were leaning lazily against the fence, having abandoned their drills to watch the spar.

"I have some news," Duncan began once they were all together.

"What is it?" Jory asked, clearly worried given the puckering between his brows.

Duncan cleared his throat. "I've decided to delay the Joining. You three have proven yourselves—there's no questioning that. We are, however, lacking in numbers...the more of you there are, the better chance Ferelden will have in the days to come. I'm going to scout the Brecilian Forest in search of another recruit."

"The forest? Who do you hope to find there?" Daveth wanted to know. "A hermit?"

Duncan's eyes flashed. "There are several clans of Dalish elves hidden beneath the trees. Their warriors are capable and strong. I would search elsewhere, Daveth, but the forest is close, and given that time is an enemy..."

"It's our only option," Alistair finished.

"Precisely," said Duncan, nodding. "I expect to return within a week. And when that day comes..." He looked over his charges, his expression slightly troubled. "We will begin the Joining."


End file.
